


Out of This Place

by Sineala



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Ancient Rome, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5451956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the return of the Eagle, Marcus takes Esca to Rome to meet the rest of his family. Esca decides to alleviate the pressures of the situation by pretending what Marcus' family assumes: that he and Marcus are romantically involved. Maybe he should have consulted Marcus first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of This Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tenillypo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenillypo/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! Your letter said you liked trope fic, pining, misunderstandings, Marcus and Esca choosing each other, and Marcus taking Esca to visit his family. I have attempted to incorporate all of the above.
> 
> Therefore, Marcus is visiting his other uncle in Rome; in book canon, he was raised by his father's sister and her husband Tullus Lepidus after his mother died. (I have renamed him slightly, because, come on, that's not a name.) He doesn't appear to have had a great time living with them, so I have made him have a much more entertaining visit this time.
> 
> Thanks to alby_mangroves for beta.

The letter came early in the spring of their first year, the soonest it could have come after the winter storms.

For all that they had known each other before, Esca had taken to thinking of the moment the Eagle left Marcus' hands as the moment their entwined life had begun. It was not that Marcus meant nothing to him before; Esca would never forget the path of his life after the day Marcus' eyes met his across the sands at Calleva as if they had been the only two in all the world. But now that Marcus had freed him, it seemed that everything started anew, and it would be right to count again from the beginning.

They had their land now, their farm. They had their life. It would be a hard life, Esca knew, but it would be theirs, and fairly won. They were raising horses, as Esca's own clan would have, and so in that way it was like the life he had thought he would have, and in every other way it was nothing alike.

He was in love with Marcus.

It no longer seemed strange to him to state it so plainly to himself; it had been a long time in coming, and it seemed the most natural thing to Esca, that this man who had saved him, who had put his life in Esca's hands, should have Esca's heart, too.

It was not, however, a thing he could state to Marcus.

The problem was not that Marcus was Roman; it would have been untrue, too simple, to say that because he was Roman he would not, when Esca knew full well that Roman men did what they liked with men -- as long as what they liked would not unman them, and Esca was sure there were Romans who did not give a tuft of wool for that.

He did not think Marcus was one of them.

But no, even had Marcus been a man of the tribes, Esca knew he would still be the same. Marcus was a man of deep feelings, of passionate feelings, and he had learned somehow to shame himself for them. Esca was not entirely sure that it was the fault of Rome; he thought that perhaps Marcus would always have been thus.

Even if Marcus felt the same way, he would never say so; perhaps he would never believe he ought to. And if Esca asked, and Marcus said no, then matters between them would be forever strange, forever different, with these feelings having been stirred up, and Esca could not abide losing him. He had Marcus' friendship. It would be enough.

But it was days like this, when Marcus looked down sadly at this mysterious letter from afar, that Esca wished he could give voice to his feelings, for he longed to embrace Marcus, to comfort him.

"Marcus," he asked, "what does it say?"

He could read Latin, a little, for Marcus had taught him the letters, but the words that marched across the page as Marcus unrolled it had shapes he did not know, and he knew it must be Greek. A letter from a fine Roman then; Marcus had told him that Greek was what rich men, senators and equestrians, learned to speak even in Rome. Esca wondered sometimes whether, had the Romans admired Britain more, Marcus might have learned Esca's own tongue from birth, and not the few halting phrases he had picked up so far.

"It is from my aunt and uncle in Rome," Marcus said, and now his brow was furrowed in confusion.

"You have never spoken of them." He knew Marcus' uncle, of course -- how could he not? -- but somehow, knowing that Marcus' father and mother were dead had made him assume that Marcus was like him in all ways, that he was alone in the world with even his more distant kin lost to him. It was ridiculous; it was not as if anyone had slaughtered Marcus' family, after all. But they might as well have been dead; Marcus had never once mentioned living relatives other than his uncle.

Marcus frowned again at the letter. "And as I had assumed that they had never spoken of me after the day I left their home, we have been on an even footing, then." There was a snap of unease and tension in his voice. He sighed. "My father's sister -- my aunt Flavia -- she and her husband Tullius Lepidus, they took me in after my mother died, and I lived with them until I enlisted."

Daring, Esca placed a hand on Marcus' shoulder; Marcus did not so much as look up. "It was ill with them, then?"

Marcus sighed again. "The gods forbid I should compare my straits to yours, Esca, you who have suffered far worse than I, but-- it was not that they were cruel people. My aunt was good to me; it is Tullius Lepidus who was... unkind. It was not that he harmed me, he was merely unkind. I have borne worse."

"Kindness is not a luxury," Esca said, and the words tasted sour in his mouth, because he knew that indeed it often was. "Not from your kinsman."

"Uncle-by-marriage," Marcus said, with a snort of something that was not laughter.

"Kin by marriage, then," Esca said, unwilling to abandon the point.

There was another sigh. "At any rate," Marcus said, squinting at the letter, "he wants to see me. To thank me for restoring his wife's family's honor." His mouth twisted. "See, now, now he wishes to see me, now that it is not a stain upon him to be seen with me, now that we have brought back the Eagle."

"You do not have to go," Esca said, because Marcus was frowning at the letter as if he had already accepted the pain and was trying to puzzle out how to make it hurt less.

"I want to."

Open-mouthed, Esca stared at him. "You are _ridiculous_."

* * *

"You are _ridiculous_!" said Marcus' uncle, much more stridently than Esca had. "By Pollux, why do you want to visit my good-for-nothing brother-in-law?"

"He asked me to," Marcus said, weakly.

"And I asked you not to take Esca and head past the wall in search of the Eagle!" He harrumphed loudly. 

"I hardly think any of us should regret that--" began Marcus, and Esca felt warm all over, warm at Marcus' pride, at the way Marcus included him in his _any of us_.

"No," his uncle said, "but are you truly going to stand there and tell me that you are the sort of man who always does as he is bid? Especially when Tullius Lepidus comes calling."

"I want to go," Marcus said, in a stronger voice. "Not for him, but I will stay with him if I must. I-- I want to see my mother's grave."

His uncle opened and closed his mouth.

"Well," he said, in a much kinder voice. "That is a different matter entirely."

* * *

Marcus' uncle had given them a room for the night. To be more precise, he had given them two rooms, but they were only using one; Esca had dragged his mattress onto the floor of Marcus' room, and there he slept, as he had done before while Marcus was recovering and needed him at his side. When he had been Marcus' slave.

But this was his choice, and that made all the difference.

Over on the bed, Marcus was lying on his back, one arm flung across his eyes, as if he preferred to address his remarks to the darkness. "You don't have to come with me," he said, finally. It was the first thing he had said since Esca had dragged the mattress in and lain down. "I know that when we went to the north, I never asked. I commanded. But now I shall not command you, Esca, for you are dear to me--" Esca's heart pounded twice as fast, even though he knew Marcus did not mean it in that manner-- "and I like to think I have become wiser, since I have known you."

He thought of Marcus going away alone, of leaving him. He wanted to be with Marcus, wherever he would go. And even though Marcus' other uncle was clearly abominable, he wanted to meet him, to say he had done the thing. And if Marcus wanted to see his mother's grave -- he wanted to share that with him, too, but only if Marcus wished it.

"It is in my heart that I would go with you," Esca said, haltingly, "but only if it is in yours."

Marcus breathed out, a long exhalation, like the archer who has finally loosed his arrow and could now see where it flew. "It is. I would-- I would rather you be there with me." His last words were softer. "I think my mother would have liked you."

He wondered if Marcus was smiling.

* * *

The journey itself did not take overly long to arrange; they found an Atrebates man to mind the farm in their absence, and even though Marcus' uncle gave them increasingly sour stares every time they visited Calleva, Marcus was not shaken from his planning, not in the slightest.

And then they were on the way: to Dubris, across the water, then through Gaul, where the language the tribes spoke sounded stranger and stranger the further south they went, until Esca did not recognize it at all. There were jolting mulecarts, then a pair of horses, and night after night in crowded rooms above crowded tabernae. Esca slept close to Marcus then, as they had once slept on their journey north. It meant nothing, Esca told himself. There was little room. Even if it was sometimes torturous to lie next to Marcus and know that this was all he could have of him -- well, he had known far worse in his life.

The mountains were harsh; then, too, Esca told himself it had been worse, for at least now they were not wounded.

And then, all too suddenly, they were but a day from Rome; they would be there tomorrow.

"I thought," Esca told him, in what -- if the gods were willing -- would be their last stinking inn on this half of the journey, "that perhaps you had wanted to see Clusium."

The road had gone there; they had not stopped.

But Marcus shook his head. "The farm was sold, years ago. There is nothing for me there now." And then he looked up, and he met Esca's eyes; his gaze was full of an unaccustomed seriousness. "Esca, I only want you to know this -- if you are here because you think you will learn what made me the manner of man I am by meeting my kin, you will be disappointed." His mouth quirked. "I am-- very little like them."

To be honest, Esca thought that that in its own way was a response, as if Marcus had met them and been molded in the opposite direction, as a stonecutter might cut away granite to make a high relief. But he knew that was not the answer Marcus wanted.

"I am ready," he said, "and I will be at your side. However I can help you, you have only to let me know and it will be done."

"Thank you," Marcus said, fervently. He sounded as if he would extract everything he could from the promise. Esca was more than willing to give it.

* * *

Esca saw what Marcus had meant the instant Tullius Lepidus -- a thin, balding man who put Esca in mind of a weasel -- opened his mouth.

Lepidus shook Marcus' hand, shook Esca's hand a little more disdainfully, turned back to Marcus, and said, "We can get you a pretty one, you know."

Well. It was not as though Esca had not heard the jokes about the duties freedmen had towards their masters, but he had not thought to hear them about himself and Marcus. It stung a little, to know that Marcus did not want him, even as he knew that equally he could not have borne it if Marcus had instead wished to command him to attend him in that manner.

No, with Marcus it would have been freely offered, and freely given -- but Marcus would have done neither. He would do neither. Esca knew this. Why, see, even now, how he reacted to the jest. It repulsed him; that much was plain to see.

Marcus' mouth opened and closed, and bright spots of color gathered on his cheeks; Esca could see him begin to hackle up, but then he choked it all down, as if he dared not complain to this man. Esca saw now, in the span of a few breaths, what Marcus' time here must have been like.

So instead Esca smiled, a silky-smooth smile, the look he had once saved for the worst of his masters, the men who liked to imagine that his slavery pleased him. And he said, "Oh, but I am sure that Marcus thinks I am beautiful. Don't you, Marcus?"

"He speaks Latin?"

This was from Lepidus, astonished, and Esca gritted his teeth and kept smiling.

"Of course Esca speaks Latin!" Marcus said, indignant.

Lepidus' nose turned up in a disapproving sniff. "Well, how was I to know what of civilization a trousered barbarian from the farthest island knew?" His laugh was a high titter. Charming. Urbane, perhaps. He must have cultivated it. "Really, nephew. In my house we have only the finest Greek slaves, well-educated."

A muscle in Marcus' jaw twitched. "Uncle, Esca is _not_ \--"

But Esca had been a slave, and at any rate it did not matter to Esca what this man called him, or what he implied that they were, and surely if there was honor at stake here it was his and not Marcus'. They would be gone soon. It meant nothing.

Esca laid his hand on Marcus' arm. "Peace, Marcus," he murmured. "It is well."

Marcus relaxed under Esca's fingers, and Esca let out his breath.

It was only afterwards that Esca realized that Marcus had never answered, when Esca had asked if Marcus thought him beautiful.

He must have forgotten. The answer was no.

* * *

Dinner was eels, and dinner was miserable.

Esca received a space on the honored guest's couch next to Marcus, only because he was sure that Marcus would have turned around and gone back to Britain that instant if Lepidus had said that Esca was not welcome.

The couches were full of rich men, senators, men who had come to hear the story of Marcus' quest for the Eagle from Marcus' own lips. And certainly for them it was most clearly Marcus whose they were prepared to hear; Esca had known this from the instant he saw the men in their fine broad-striped tunics, but it seemed that Marcus had not known until he tried to include Esca in the story.

"But I could not have done it without Esca, you see," Marcus said, valiantly, earnestly.

One of the men laughed. "Come now! You expect me to believe that your barbarian slave summoned soldiers for you? There is no need to be modest! Truly only a Roman could have returned one of Rome's Eagles."

Esca nudged Marcus. "It is well," he whispered. "Tell them what they want to hear."

Marcus frowned. "But I owe my life to you--"

"It is well," Esca repeated, heartened by Marcus' loyalty, by their loyalty to each other. "You know it, and I know it, and it does not matter to me what these men think of me. Smile and laugh and tell them the lies they came to hear, and the easier it will be for us."

Marcus swallowed hard and raised his voice. "You are right," he said. "I did it myself."

"I knew it!" the man said, and he laughed and called for a toast.

Marcus looked, perhaps, a little paler than he ought to have, as he drank.

* * *

Lepidus gave them separate rooms. Of course he did; that was the way of things in Rome. Romans slept in separate rooms, even husbands and wives. For them there were no roundhouses, warm and comforting in winter's chill, where one slumbered with all of one's kin, where one knew there was life and family and protection, where all throughout the night the furs moved and family breathed and there were always people there. In Rome there were stone roads, straight, carved out, not just meandering cattle paths and trampled grass between houses. Esca could not deny that Rome was beautiful, but to him it was lonely.

Marcus' uncle -- Marcus' other uncle, Esca supposed -- either had not known that Esca had not used the room he had given him, or had not cared, but Rome was not Calleva. And though Esca was willing to play the uncouth barbarian, he did not think Marcus would like what they said about them if Esca stayed in his room.

They had grown accustomed to sleeping in the same room, on the farm. No, that was not true; they had grown accustomed on the quest. When Esca thought about it, he pictured that terrifying night on their flight south from the Seal People, Marcus bleeding sluggishly, shivering in the rain, with only a sodden cloak to warm him. He had been gray, cold as the dead. Esca had taken the watch then, and sat as Marcus slept, and his heart had lurched between every breath Marcus took, stomach twisting with the fear that every breath would be the last one.

Since then, they slept in the same room, and when Esca woke in the night, or could not sleep, he listened to Marcus' breaths and matched his own to their rhythm.

Marcus had never spoken of it, but Esca liked to think that he was a comfort for Marcus, just the same.

Tonight Esca lay on his fine Roman bed in his fine Roman room, and he could not sleep.

There came a knock on the wall next to the door-curtain.

When he pulled back the curtain, he was not entirely surprised to see Marcus, who smiled a small, sheepish smile, hunched in on himself -- as if that could make him shorter.

"I cannot sleep," Marcus said, and he did not meet his eyes. "I was wondering if I might," he added, and he did not finish the question, either.

_Do you know what they will say if they find us together?_ Esca wanted to ask, but Marcus must have known. Surely Marcus knew; surely he had weighed it all in his mind before asking. Marcus was a man who was very certain, once he had set his mind on a thing. It would be an insult to question him.

And... Esca wanted to.

"Of course," Esca said.

Marcus smiled at him now, like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds, and Esca remembered again how much he loved this man.

"I will just get my mattress," Marcus said.

Esca made him take the bed, of course; kneeling to lie on the floor was not easy for Marcus' leg.

He fell asleep listening to Marcus breathe.

* * *

In the morning, the slaves tittered at each other when Esca rose and dragged the mattress back into the other room; it would be the gossip of the household already. So when Lepidus greeted them in the dining-room, bread at the ready for breakfast, he was smirking; he had heard.

Marcus stared in blank incomprehension, and that was when Esca realized that, as unbelievable as it seemed, Marcus hadn't known.

It was not that Marcus was stupid; far from it. Rather, it seemed that in some areas of his life, Marcus was willfully blind; it was the only thing that could explain the fact that Marcus seemed to be honestly unaware of what everyone in the house had assumed when they slept together. By all the gods, he was a Roman, and surely a Roman should have known that Romans shared the bedrooms of their houses for one and only one reason! Surely he should have known it even better than Esca!

"So," Lepidus began, "you and your freedman had a fine night together, then?" He smiled. "Tell me, how is he in bed?" He eyed Esca like a trader judging the worth of a horse. "He's a little scrawny for my taste, but I suppose he must have skills of his own to make up for it."

Marcus' mouth fell open, and Esca knew that if Marcus found words, they would be words of condemnation, telling Lepidus that he had never once thought of Esca in those terms, that he could never, for Esca was his friend, as if being his friend meant he could never be any more to him than that. It would hurt Esca as well as Lepidus. And it would not make Lepidus stop.

Esca had known Romans; he had had masters very like Lepidus. And he knew what Marcus did not. Even though the very idea of it pained his soul, the only way to survive was to do what was asked. To be the man one was expected to be. Just as Esca had had to occasionally play the meek slave to keep his skin, so too would it be easier for Marcus if Marcus merely... was what Lepidus expected. It did not matter that it was -- in terms of the basic physical acts -- very like what Esca wanted. That was irrelevant, because he did not want this seeming, because it would pain him to have something so close and yet so far from his desires. But that, too, did not matter. This was for Marcus. This would make Lepidus stop.

They would only be here a few days.

It wasn't real.

It would mean nothing.

He would do this, and Marcus' life would be made easier.

So Esca turned, reached up, pulled Marcus' head down, and kissed him. Thoroughly.

Marcus was tall enough that he could not have been entirely unwilling; if he had truly resisted, Esca would not have been able to pull him down. But he must not have known what Esca was planning, and surely that was why he acquiesced; it could not be that he wanted it. His warm mouth against Esca's was slack, open, shocked, and Esca plundered it. When Esca let him up, Marcus was panting and staring down at him, his stunned eyes not quite focusing.

_I am sorry_ , Esca did not tell him, feeling like once again they were with the Seal People, pretending to be men that they were not -- except here Esca was, and it was worse, because he knew that surely Marcus must hate it as much as he had hated being Esca's slave.

He could not tell him the truth, not here. But surely Marcus would catch onto what Esca meant by this.

Marcus' tongue flicked out. He licked his lips, as if he could not quite believe that this had happened. His gaze was still blank, astonished.

Esca turned to Lepidus and smiled. "Marcus has never had any complaints about my skill," he told him, affecting all the pride he could.

Technically, it was a true statement; it was not a thing they had ever spoken of.

Lepidus laughed, reaching out and clapping Marcus on the shoulder, jolting emotion back into his face once again. "Well, then, I suppose you have chosen rightly!" He sounded pleased. "I was beginning to worry about you, my boy. You never once bedded the slaves when you lived here, after all." He wrinkled his nose. "Old Fortunatus said he once walked in and you were tending to your own needs." From his tone it was clear that he judged this, in the usual way of Romans, as vaguely pathetic, the last resort of a man who could not find a warm body; Esca struggled not to picture Marcus doing that very thing. 

"I remember," Marcus said, firmly, in the manner of one who would rather talk about something else. "You need not remind me."

Lepidus was still grinning. "Ah, well. But now I see you have finally seen the way of things! You are a true Roman at last."

Marcus was a poor actor, and his smile looked a great deal like a grimace.

* * *

Esca had resolved that this would go differently than their time among the Seal People; surely there would be a moment when he and Marcus were left alone today, a moment in which Esca could discuss why he had embarked on this plan. He could apologize for the necessity before they had become too deeply enmeshed in it. At least this time Marcus knew it was not real -- and then Esca wanted to laugh or perhaps cry, because his own feelings were all too real.

But they were never left alone.

Marcus' aunt Flavia wanted to spend time with them, and she had insisted on Esca accompanying them; unlike her husband, she seemed to understand that Marcus had chosen Esca to spend his life with and she wanted to know him better. And it had been years too, she said, since she had seen Marcus.

Though Marcus still looked puzzled every time his gaze lit on Esca, he regarded Flavia with unfeigned joy. "Yes, of course," he told her. "I would be happy to talk with you, though I cannot speak for Esca...?" He looked at Esca again.

"Marcus says you are his favorite aunt," Esca said, because he had.

She laughed. "Did he not tell you I was his only aunt?"

"You would still be my favorite," Marcus said, smiling, and it was a true smile.

Marcus explained to her the tale of the Eagle -- the true story, this time -- and she had been an attentive, pleasant audience.

And when it was over she looked between Marcus and Esca a little uncertainly; Marcus had just finished telling her of their new farm on the Downs.

"So no woman has caught your eye, then?" she asked. "Ah, it was always thus with you."

Esca supposed Marcus had been shy with women; he always seemed to be, when Esca had seen him.

Marcus shook his head. His gaze met Esca's, and then darted away. "I... no," he murmured. "Still none for me."

Flavia reached over and patted Marcus' knee. "Well, your young man is very nice," she said, and then she gathered up her stola and palla and left, before Marcus could say anything.

They were alone. Esca opened his mouth--

And then one of the slaves came in and announced dinner.

Well.

* * *

Dinner was once again awful. There were no invited guests this time, thankfully, but Lepidus sampled perhaps too much of the wine, and his comments grew cruder and cruder.

He had made political jokes of all sorts, he had insulted the far-flung provinces -- including Britain -- at least five or six times, and he was well into discussing his favorites among the slaves when Marcus slid off the dining couch and stood; Esca braced him with an arm, as he sometimes did these days.

"Excuse me," Marcus said. "I am not feeling well; I wish to retire."

Lepidus only hiccuped and laughed. "Don't forget your freedman," he said. "He's very... dutiful."

Esca slid his hands around Marcus' arm and walked with him, across the tiled floor; he had left his cane in his room. And naturally Lepidus would make something of this, a thing that they truly did, that was not part of the pretense.

He thought perhaps Lepidus was still chuckling, as Marcus threw his arm over Esca's shoulders, as they left.

* * *

"We are leaving," Marcus breathed in Esca's ear, softly enough that none would overhear, as they walked through the house to the bedrooms. "We are leaving tomorrow, I swear it. But first--"

They were at Esca's room, and Marcus stepped in, pulled the curtain shut -- and then pivoted on his good leg and pushed Esca back against the wall next to the door. Marcus was holding himself up by one hand planted on the wall next to Esca's head, and he leaned forward, close enough that Esca could feel the heat of Marcus' breath against his skin.

Their faces were very close.

"Why did you kiss me?" Marcus asked.

In Esca's fantasies, this was where Marcus would lean closer and--

Of course, in Esca's fantasies, Marcus would sound seductive, passionate, and not merely bewildered. Marcus' eyes were wide and confused, and he stood there like a planted tree; this was a man who was not moving until he heard an answer.

Esca swallowed hard. "I thought it would be... easier."

The explanation that had sounded so reasonable in his head was much weaker on his lips.

"Easier?" Marcus' face was still, solid. Unreadable, and for Marcus that was an accomplishment indeed.

Esca kept his eyes fixed on Marcus'. "You must know this," he said. "To Romans, we do not... make sense. They see that you have chosen to live with me, and they do not understand. They see that we prefer to sleep in the same room, and they do not understand. It is not a Roman custom. I only thought that it would be easier for you if we made ourselves appear to them in a way that they would understand."

"And so you kissed me? That was why you kissed me?"

Marcus' gaze was piercing, his voice stern, but there was something in it that was not quite anger.

_I stole a kiss_ , Esca did not say. _I have desired you for months_.

"Yes," Esca lied. "That was the reason."

Marcus looked at him for a long while in silence. His eyes softened; Esca thought he seemed sad. Perhaps he was disappointed in Esca, upset that Esca had taken this liberty with him.

"I'm sorry," Esca said, and Marcus only looked sadder. "I won't do it again?" he offered, but that seemed to make it even worse; Marcus shut his eyes and stepped back, leaving Esca alone against the wall.

"Of course you won't," Marcus said.

There was silence between them, and then Marcus smiled; in the light of the oil-lamp, it looked false.

"I will just go get the mattress now," Marcus said.

They were silent until morning.

Esca wished he understood what had happened.

* * *

In the morning they bade Marcus' uncle farewell, and Marcus slipped his hand into Esca's as the door was shut behind them.

"Marcus?" Esca said, uncertainly. "We are not with them, and you do not need to pretend--"

Marcus' fingers tightened over his and then let go.

"Oh," he said, softly. Esca was minded of a fighter struck down in battle, a blow to the heart.

But Marcus said nothing else.

Clearly Esca had repulsed him greatly. Perhaps he never should have done it.

* * *

They stopped at a market. Marcus had mentioned wanting to visit his mother's grave, Esca knew, but perhaps he had changed his mind. Perhaps he did not want Esca with him.

"We are too late for the Parentalia," Marcus said, "but I want to make the proper offerings, nonetheless. It is her birthday soon. That will be good."

At least Marcus did not hate him that much. He still wanted Esca here.

Esca nodded. "You should."

He wondered if Marcus might go with him to make offerings for his own kin, or if he had ruined their own friendship already.

Wheat. Salt. Bread and wine. Violets. Marcus looked longingly at another flower-seller.

"They have no flower-wreaths," Marcus said, frowning. "We are too late for the festival, and I have never had the knack of weaving them."

"I do," Esca said. "Buy flowers and I will braid them."

Marcus took a sharp breath. "You would do that for me?"

_I would do anything for you_ , Esca thought.

"Yes," he said aloud.

* * *

They were just outside Rome when they stopped, for all the graveyards were beyond the walls.

They tied the horses down, and Esca followed Marcus as he blazed a slow, uncertain trail through the markers, through the entrances to buried tombs.

"I was only here twice," Marcus murmured, "and that was years ago, so I hope I-- oh."

And then he stopped at a tomb, so suddenly that Esca nearly ran into him.

The grave in front of them, near the mouth of the tomb, was small, neatly lettered, with words precisely carved into it. Or maybe they were not words. Esca knew his letters, but he still could not read it.

Marcus' mouth had fallen open; his eyes were brimming with tears, and he traced the letters with his fingertips.

"Marcus?" Esca asked. "Can you-- will you tell me what it says?"

Eyes still fixed on the grave, Marcus nodded. But he spoke the words as if he had long known them, in his heart, rather than as if he were reading them. "To the spirits of the dead," he began. "Cornelia, wife of Marcus Flavius Aquila, aged 33 years. Her brother Gnaeus Cornelius Chrysogonus made this."

He had not known Marcus' father's name was the same as his. And he had not known-- "You have another uncle?"

Marcus shook his head. "Had. He died on campaign in Judaea, just after I myself enlisted."

He had so few people left, Esca realized. And then Marcus had chosen him. They had chosen each other.

He watched as Marcus laid down the wheat and salt and violets, as he soaked a bit of bread in wine and put that down too. A meal for the dead. And then he ate another bit of the bread itself, and a sip of the wine.

Nervously Esca laid down the flower-wreath he had braided, and Marcus smiled at him; he had done it rightly.

"It has been a long time," Marcus told the gravestone, "and I am sorry. I live in Britain now, with my friend Esca. This is Esca."

Marcus' arm settled over Esca's shoulder.

"He is the truest friend I have ever had," Marcus said, and his voice shook. "He saved my life. He brought honor to our family, and I-- I think you would have loved him." He paused. "I love him."

As a friend, Esca told himself. As a friend. For had Marcus not been horrified at the very idea of things being otherwise?

He was still telling himself this when Marcus turned his head and kissed Esca full on the lips.

This was everything the kiss yesterday had not been, warm and real and full of promise.

"There," Marcus said, and his face was pale with tension but his voice was firm. "Now one of us has told the truth."

"But," Esca said, stupidly; all he could think of was the taste of Marcus. "But you seemed so ill about it, when your uncle said--"

"That was him," Marcus said, as if the answer were self-evident. "This is you. I would be ill about using you, as he suggested. It does not mean I mislike the very idea."

"But-- but-- you let me--"

"I did ask you why you did it." Marcus frowned. He took a breath. "Esca, if I am wrong, if I judged you wrongly, and you did not want this--"

"I do," Esca put in. "I do, Marcus, I have loved you for-- oh, I do not know how long--"

Marcus started to laugh. "Oh, we have been idiots."

"Not you," Esca said, for he would always defend Marcus. "Only me."

"Shh," Marcus said. "Just kiss me again."

"What, in front of your mother?"

"She has seen worse from me," Marcus said, and his laughter echoed from the walls as Esca kissed him.

It was well. They were well, in the eyes of those of Marcus' kin who mattered, and they were their own family now. They had each other.


End file.
